Folks Arrive in Dushanbe (and the authorities are waiting…)
on Shane Stevenson (Tajikistan), 13/Oct/2009 07:55, 34 days ago
The Riga flight actually arrives at 3.00a.m with the passengers finally escaping the terminal around 5.00a.m. Ma and Pa were distinctly obvious through the one way glass, firstly they were typically English and bringing up the rear of the imaginary queue for passport control, and secondly, they were the only ones to be wearing anything other than black or grey, red and green are only found on the tajik flag.Pleased to see them (and their bag of goodies) we squashed into the Niva and returned to our new house of several hours. Sleep was postponed until the cockerels crowed their dawn chorus and we had rifled through novelty items like Marmite, Tetley Tea, non-polyester shirts, tennis racquets, roasted peanuts, moisturising creams, and dairy milk. Meanwhile, Mum was mentally preparing a‘to do list’ to make the house inhabitable. (Shamelessly the house was spring cleaned and the freezer defrosted before we’d even visited our first museum).All in all the week drifted by quickly. We passed most the time strolling around Dushanbe’s tree lines avenue, sampling the three main beer types and eating at various international restaurants. Meat and a selection of salad products were banned for health reasons, and most the menu I really don’t understand, so that left a rather restricted choice of chips and kidney beans.On a more adventurous day we flagged a Lada taxi and headed North to Varzob Lake only to discover someone had stolen the plug leaving the hapless fish flapping in the breeze. On route the KGB pulled over our chariot of soviet innovation. Dressed in black bulletproof vests they were not convinced of our story to swim in a concrete basin and decided to examine all our paperwork, including passports, driving licenses and supermarket receipts. Thankfully, a picture of‘Jordan’ on the cover of O.K magazine lightened their mood, lowered their guns and persuade them to wave us on our way. (Carly was adamant that the magazine would not become subject of the bribe as she had not read the Pete Andre story.)Our second encounter with the authorities was much more favourable. An hour and half to the east of the city is the Nurek lake contained by a 300m high dam which produces most of the electricity for the highly polluting aluminium smelting factory. The lake, an intoxicating blue, extends 20km up the river and provides spectacular views. At the base of the 36yr old dam we were met by and excitable young‘militzia’ who for the handsome fee of 50somoni (£7) provided us with a private tour of the dam, the tunnels and the presidential houseboats, and proffered his services as a shaky handed photographer.The rest of the week passed by in hazy sunshine, aimlessly strolling around the parks and fountains of the city with numerous extended beer stops. The Museum of Ethnicity provided a welcome distraction between restaurants, and the Central Asia Champions League Final a re-enactment of a mid week game between Hartlepool and Colchester. Unfortunately, having reached a kidney bean saturation point a rogue tin of Russian Salmon crept into the diet and consequently curtailed our activities.Nearing our final farewells we had our third and final encounter with the authorities at the airport. The Tajik Embassy in London had stamped Ma and Pas’ passports as guests and not as tourist, as this is written in Tajik scrawl it is not so easy to decipher. This, according to moustache wearing authoritarian passport control officer (with small testicles) means that you need an official stamp after three days not the after one months as a tourist. As we argued through an obliging interpreter, departure time crept closer, moustache boy dug in his shiny shoes, jangled the change in his spacious pockets and resorted to extorting an exorbitant bribe. It kind of sums up Tajikistan; you eat in pleasant restaurants all week but still end up leaving a sour taste, possibly with a tinge of salmon.